


Homecoming

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, F/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about the early days after Jack returns home from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> After a discussion about Jack's ex-wife Rosie, this story kept me awake. I had to get out of my head first thing this morning. Sorry it's not full of Christmas cheer.

She bolts awake, terror like ice in her veins.

“No!” he shouts, “I have to...I have to...” he mumbles incoherently. Then there is more shouting.

“Move them back! Get him out of here! Now!”

She sits up and flicks on the bedside lamp. He’s thrashing about. He’s soaked through his pajamas again. She places a hand firmly on his chest.

“Jack,” she says gently, “Jack, sweetheart, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

He reaches up and grabs her arm above the elbow, his grip like a vice. It hurts and she knows it will leave a mark.

“Jack!” she says more forcefully. “It’s Rosie. Wake up.”

His eyes fly open and meet hers, but she knows he doesn’t see her.

“It’s Rosie,” she says again.

He blinks and she watches his eyes as they come into focus. He looks at his hand on her arm and his brows knit in disgust. He releases her quickly and his hand recoils like it’s been burnt.

“Rosie,” he says dully.

“Yes, darling, it’s me. You’re home. You’re safe.”

He blinks again and turns away from her, curling into a ball. She waits a moment then turns out the light and lays down beside him, placing her hand flat between his shoulder blades, running it down his spine to rest at the small of his back. She feels him flinch, and stiffen at her touch. She doesn’t care. She slept here alone for years, waiting for him to be next to her again. She’ll touch him whether he likes it or not.

His breathing becomes even, but she knows he’s only pretending to sleep. Silent tears run down, wetting her pillow, but she doesn’t check them. She lets them flow until she drifts off.

 

* * *

 

“Good Morning darling,” she says cheerfully. “Can I make you some porridge or an egg for breakfast?”

“Toast is fine,” he says, snatching a piece off the plate. “I should get to work.”

“Jack!” she says angrily, “Sit down and have breakfast with your wife. You have time.”

He sits, obediently, and lets her pour his tea. She remembers doing this before. How his hand would snake its way around her waist coming to rest on her hip. How he’d pull her down into his lap and kiss her passionately. She dreamed of those kisses. Waiting and yearning for them. Those kisses and those strong hands on her. He doesn’t touch her at all anymore.

She sits opposite him and sips her tea. His head is bowed, his hands in his lap. He looks like a little boy awaiting permission to begin to eat. She studies his face.

A handsome face. At first glance almost too perfect, with its hard jaw line and high cheekbones. Before he left it had still retained some of the softness of the boy he was. Now, the planes have hardened, the cheeks are more hollow, the lips that used to curl so easily into a smile, sit in a permanently serious, expressionless line. And the eyes never shine at her like they used to. He’d developed a look that was hewn from marble, like a statue of a greek god. But it was still the face she loved.

“You had another nightmare,” she says quietly. “You were shouting.”

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he replies, not looking up.

“I don’t care about that!” she says. “What was it about? Where were you? Tell me, I want to help.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t remember.”

“You were saying, ‘ _Get back_ ’ or something like that,” she prompts.

He looks up at her, his eyes stricken.

“I don’t remember,” he says again, but she knows he does. “I’ve got to get to work.”

She stares at the door for a minute after he’s gone. It’s been nearly three months since he’s been home. Well, since he’s been a physical presence in their home. Jack, the one she knows, the one that is her husband, has yet to come home.

She’d never told him how much she missed him. Her letters had been happy and breezy, and she had written of how much he was loved, but she’d kept her grief and loneliness to herself. She knew it would go away once he returned, and hadn’t wanted to burden him. He’s returned, and she is still lonely.

 Rosie buries her head in her hands and allows herself a minute. Just a minute to grieve and wallow and feel sorry for herself. To rage silently at the unfairness of it all. Then she gets up and clears away the breakfast dishes. She pours the tea he didn’t drink down the drain and tosses the untouched toast in the bin. She gets on with her day.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack shuts the door and heads out into the street breathing a sigh of relief. Guilt immediately follows, but he can’t help it, he’s so glad to be away. Out from under her eyes. Those eyes that are always watching him.

Looking at him with hope and affection, or puzzled and questioning, like she’s not sure who he is. Worse still, is when they are filled with hurt or anger. They all break his heart, but the most horrible of all is the fear. The fear he sees in her eyes when he wakes in the night screaming. His own wife is afraid of him.

For so long she was what kept him together. He wore out her picture looking at it every night, imagining he was home with her, in their bed. He devoured her letters, hearing her voice in his head, laughing when she joked about the neighbors.

But after awhile, they didn’t fill him with joy or contentment anymore. He stopped looking forward to them. He couldn’t stand her breezy tone, telling him of the afternoon teas and bandage rolling parties. It was all so ridiculous. It took him days to open them. Some he never did. And he wrote to her less and less. What was there to say? There was nothing he was doing or seeing that he wanted to share with her.

_‘Tell me.’_ She keeps asking him. _‘Let me help you.’_

But what can she do? How could she help. He doesn’t want to talk about it. She says she is the daughter of a police officer and now the husband of one, _‘I can handle it’_ , she says.

Maybe she can. He knows she is strong, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t talk about it. It’s bad enough it takes hold of his nights. He won’t let it own his days too.

Even if he wanted to talk, he wouldn’t tell her. Not his Rose. She’s too beautiful and clean. He will not be the one to tell her of the horrors. He won’t soil her with the terrible things men do to each other. At least he can protect her from that.

He pushes through the double doors of the station. The phone is ringing and the shift is changing. It is a bustling hive of activity.

“Robinson!” Inspector Hall shouts as he comes from his office. “You’re with me, Sergeant. There’s been a brawl down at the docks with casualties. Possible homicide.”

Jack turns to follow his commanding officer out the door, relishing the adrenaline that starts pumping through his veins. He lets it all fall away. He has work to do.


End file.
